‘What?’
Silence.
‘What’s wrong, Milah?’
‘Nothing!’
‘Then why are you pulling that ridiculous face?’
‘I’m not …’(something mumbled).
‘Speak up, Milah! Stop mumbling!’
‘I’m not pulling a face, Hana, all right?!’
‘Yes you are! You’re rolling your eyes like some kind of mad woman!’
‘I’m not!’
‘Look at Riya! She thinks you’re a freak! Is your Amma behaving like some kind of crazy nutter, Riya?’
Short pause.
‘Ha! See?! She’s nodding!’
Valentine quickly steps forward and yanks the door open. Two women in burqas and a small, plump child dressed entirely in pink are crowded together on the doorstep.
‘I’m so sorry!’ Valentine and one of the women both chorus in conjunction.
‘I was phoning my bank when you started to knock,’ Valentine explains, ‘I was actually stuck on hold so I couldn’t …’
‘My sister is incredibly nosey,’ the second woman pipes up. ‘Please let me apologize on her behalf.’
She holds out her hand.
‘I don’t need you to apologize on my behalf!’ the first woman exclaims. ‘I already apologized myself thank you very much!’
‘It’s just that there was only one caller remaining – I’d almost got through – then you knocked on the door and I didn’t want to jeopardize …’
She reaches out and grasps the second woman’s hand. ‘Hello, I’m Valentine, very pleased to …’
‘Farhana,’ the woman introduces herself, her pretty, mischievous eyes crinkling warmly at their corners, ‘Aamilah’s sister – but please don’t hold that against me.’
‘Farhana!’ Aamilah is scandalized.
‘Valentine’s such a pretty name!’ Farhana pointedly ignores her.
‘Thank you.’ Valentine nods.
‘Were you born on Valentine’s Day?’
‘No. I was actually conceived on Valentine’s Day. My birthday’s in November. The 14th.’
‘Oh.’
‘This is my daughter, Badriya,’ Aamilah pipes up. ‘We were taking her to the People’s Park for a picnic and I suddenly thought, Valentine’s just around the corner …’
‘Hello there,’ Valentine greets the small child, evidently slightly ill at ease, then covers her confusion by calling Nessa to the door.
‘Nessa, come and meet Badra …’ she stutters.
‘Badriya,’ Aamilah repeats.
‘It means “Resembling the full moon”,’ Farhana explains.
‘How lovely!’ Valentine exclaims, smiling down at the round-faced child who stares back at her, stolidly.
‘She’s not confident with other children,’ Farhana murmurs as Nessa clambers past Valentine to apprehend their visitor and Riya (in response) retreats, horrified, into her mother’s skirts, gazing at the genial Nessa with a disapproving scowl. She yanks her mother’s robe and mutters something into its folds.
‘Yes. We can all see that she’s not wearing any pants, Riya,’ Aamilah responds, sharply.
‘Which is why we suddenly thought – or at least Aamilah here thought – it might be nice if we could take the two of them over there together so that they could run around and play for a while …’ Farhana battles on, uneasily. ‘We’ve brought a small picnic …’ She indicates towards a large, Tupperware container and a Thermos in the storage space underneath the pram.
‘Well that’s extremely kind of you …’ Valentine starts off.
‘Of course I told her it was a silly idea!’ Farhana genially rounds on her sister. ‘I said, “She’ll probably be busy – it’s all very last minute.” Then I said, “And why on earth would she entrust two complete strangers – one of whom is plainly a maniac – with the care of her precious niece?” Eh?’
Her eyes sparkle.
‘You’re always undermining me, Hana!’ Aamilah hisses, furious. ‘Especially in front of strangers!’
‘I’m not undermining you, Milah,’ Hana snorts, ‘I’m merely stating the obvious!’
‘If something is obvious then it doesn’t need stating, does it?!’ Aamilah snaps.
‘You’ve placed Valentine on the spot,’ Farhana clucks. ‘Look at her! She doesn’t know where to put herself!’
‘No. Not at all. I’m absolutely fine,’ Valentine insists.
‘See? She’s fine!’ Milah grumbles. ‘She’s only embarrassed because you’ve drawn attention to how embarrassed she is!’
‘Listen to what you’re saying!’ Farhana flaps a dismissive hand. ‘How embarrassed she is! She was already embarrassed when I pointed it out. Her cheeks are flushed.’
‘Her cheeks are fine! It’s only too much make-up, you idiot!’ Aamilah rounds on her sister. Valentine lifts a tentative hand to her cheek.
‘So what about the huge nerve rash on her neck?’ Farhana demands.
‘Farhana! You don’t know how to behave!’ Aamilah’s mortified. ‘I’m so sorry about my sister!’ she gushes.
‘Urgh! Tit for tat!’ Farhana shrugs, amused.
Valentine can’t help smiling herself.
‘Her name means “Good deeds”,’ Farhana continues, encouraged, thumbing towards her sister. ‘She selected it herself, and I’m afraid she takes it all rather too literally …’
‘Shut up!’ Aamilah’s furious.
‘But you do!’ Farhana laughs. ‘You’re a terrible busy-body! A bull in a china shop!’
‘I’m not a bull! How can you say that?’ Aamilah turns to Valentine, hurt. ‘D’you think I’m a bull?’ she demands.
‘A bull?’ Valentine echoes, barely keeping track of their conversation.
‘Ho! That’s definitely a yes, then!’ Farhana interrupts, chuckling.
‘No it isn’t!’ Aamilah stamps her foot, livid.
‘Anything other than a decisive no in that particular context is definitely a yes,’ Farhana persists.
Aamilah eyeballs Valentine, piteously.
‘Of course you’re not a … a bull,’ Valentine quickly assures her, ‘I was just … you know … on the phone … and Nessa was about to … to have a bath …’ she continues, awkwardly, staring down at her niece, who, true to form, is now wearing her vest over the back of her head as a hood, the flesh over her bare nipples bulging – compressed by the garment’s skew hem.
‘Good gracious me!’ Aamilah exclaims, pointing, disapprovingly, to the child’s bare genitals. ‘Everyone can see your Nu-nu, child! Where’s your modesty?’
‘Aamilah!’ Farhana exclaims. ‘Hush!’ as Valentine leans down and removes Nessa’s vest from the back of her head.
‘Don’t hush me!’ Aamilah snaps. ‘I’m just telling the poor child that it’s wrong to show your Nu-nu to a bunch of complete strangers.’
‘It’s a mother’s job to tell a child such things,’ Farhana cautions her.
‘Her mother’s a drug addict,’ Aamilah scoffs, ‘her grandmother’s two slices short of a loaf, her father’s a hoodlum and her aunt’s too scared to leave the house … Just look at the poor thing – she plainly needs guidance!’
Valentine’s jaw drops, in pure astonishment, at Aamilah’s outrageous impudence.
‘Aamilah!’ her sister whispers, horrified.
‘What?!’ Aamilah looks from one woman to the other, indignant. ‘It’s only the truth!’
A brief silence follows as all parties rapidly reassess the situation.
‘Uh … Perhaps that trip to the park …’ Farhana starts off, doubtfully.
‘Rain-check.’ Valentine nods, pulling Nessa, protectively, against her legs.
‘Did I go too far?’ Aamilah asks, eyes widening.
‘Several miles.’ Farhana nods.
Aamilah lifts her niqab. ‘I do this kind of thing all the time,’ she confides, barely apologetic.
‘Never thinks before she speaks.’ Farhana also lifts her niqab. ‘Total idiot.
Completely tactless.’
‘Please forgive me!’ Aamilah pleads, grinning, in spite of herself.
‘Not wanting to leave the house is hardly a crime,’ Farhana concedes, ‘in some cultures that kind of behaviour is actively encouraged.’
‘I already apologized, Hana!’ Aamilah clucks. ‘You’re always five steps behind me!’
‘Dustpan and brush at the ready,’ Farhana sighs, long-suffering, ‘sweeping up all the mess.’
Valentine opens her mouth and then closes it again.
‘Can we have a quick word somewhere private, maybe?’ Aamilah suddenly asks, pushing her daughter over to the care of her sister and then threading past Valentine and into the house. Valentine gazes after her, uncertainly (as Aamilah introduces two, random cats to her neatly slippered toe), then apologizes to Farhana (for what exactly she is unsure) before turning to follow her.
Aamilah is comfortably ensconced on the sofa in the sitting room, niqab completely removed, when Valentine arrives there. She pats the cushion beside her.
‘Okay, so I screwed up,’ she says, ‘I just got over-excited, but I actually have something really important to share with you.’
Valentine does not feel inclined to sit down. She remains where she stands, frowning slightly.
‘Nessa,’ Aamilah addresses the child in a gentle, almost keening voice, ‘I see your panties are on the rug over there. Will you pick them up and put them back on again, please? There’s a good girl. Your auntie and I need to have an important conversation, and we can’t do that if we’re all too preoccupied by your Nu-nu, can we, now?’
She pats the cushion again as Nessa heads off, perfectly obligingly, to retrieve her pants. This time Valentine sits down.
‘I just wanted to say …’ Aamilah starts off, then, ‘That’s two legs in one hole, Nessa! Have the sense you were born with, child! Put your other leg in the other hole …’
She observes Nessa’s progress for a few moments. ‘Good job! Well done! And I want you to keep those on now, please, like a proper, grown-up girl, all right?’
Nessa nods.
‘Thank you.’ Aamilah smiles. ‘Now go and play with your dolly. Make sure your dolly is wearing her pants, too, please. And all your other toys as well.’
‘I don’t think her teddies …’ Valentine starts off.
Aamilah flaps an impatient hand to silence her. ‘Teddies too,’ she persists. ‘All good girls and all good toys need to be kept decent at all times.’
Nessa toddles over towards some crayons and paper in the corner of the room.
‘Draw a picture of yourself looking all pretty and decent in your lovely pants,’ Aamilah suggests as Valentine exclaims under her breath – a combination of amazed and amused – at Aamilah’s dogged persistence over this issue.
Nessa picks up her crayons and starts to draw, finally allowing Aamilah to relax and focus her full attention back on Valentine again. ‘Karim told me about the agoraphobia on our drive home this morning,’ she tells her, confidentially. ‘Salvatore told him about it at daycare. I just wanted to let you know that I honestly had no idea – none whatsoever – when I suggested you put on the robe and head outside in it earlier …’
‘Of course.’ Valentine nods, bearing her no ill will whatsoever.
‘Good,’ Aamilah sighs, relieved. ‘I mean I’ve never even considered asking an English girl to try on my robes before. My robe is a sacred thing to me. Not the garment itself, obviously, but what it represents.’
‘I completely get that,’ Valentine concurs.
‘Afterwards – I mean after I left here – I just thought, That girl is so oddly attached to the way she looks, the external part of herself, the superficial part of herself, and she dresses herself up but she never leaves the house. I just thought, That’s really weird. And then I thought, Allah has made her agoraphobic for a reason, of course. As a test. And Allah always tests the people he loves the most. “Wherever tears fall, divine Mercy is shown …” She really needs to know that.’
Aamilah’s sharp brown eyes suddenly soften. She reaches out and pats Valentine’s arm. ‘Allah really loves you,’ she whispers, ‘he really, really loves you. I can feel it when I’m near you. This special atmosphere. This lightness. This sense of closeness. I feel your need. You remind me so much of myself. The Prophet – peace be upon him – once said, “The Faithful are like mirrors to each other” …’
‘Thank you,’ Valentine mutters, somewhat uneasily (unsure how much of a compliment she considers this to be).
‘Allah is compassionate and all-forgiving,’ Aamilah continues. ‘I know in my heart that he sent me here today for a reason. One of our Seven Articles of Faith is that good and bad is predestined by Allah. Like I say, everything happens for a reason, and I think – in fact I’m certain – that Allah wants you to love him. He wants you to stop hating yourself and to dedicate your life to loving him instead.’
‘That’s very –’ Valentine starts off, haltingly.
‘You don’t even have to think about it,’ Aamilah interrupts, ‘you just need to do it. This minute. Right now. Make that decision in your heart to turn towards Allah.’
‘It’s just …’ Valentine frowns, her eyes lingering on Nessa.
‘Understand that all shall be well,’ Aamilah quotes, serenely.
‘Right.’ Valentine nods.
‘I mean just give it some thought.’ She inspects Valentine’s face, intently. ‘You’re a beautiful girl. Imagine how amazing it would be if you focused all that loveliness on Allah instead of on the world. Imagine what a great gift you would be bringing him. If you stopped the tattoos and gave up the clothes and the make-up – all these barriers which stand between you and complete happiness.’
‘So you … you think I need to give everything up?’ Valentine’s somewhat taken aback (even rendered slightly resentful) by this stark prospect. ‘Doesn’t God – Allah – love me as I am?’
‘Are you happy?’ Aamilah demands.
‘Uh …’ Valentine thinks for a second. ‘No. Not especially. But there are things in my life that make me feel worthwhile – which give me a strong sense of …’
‘As Karim always likes to tell me,’ Aamilah quickly butts in: ‘Paradise is encompassed by the things we dislike to do, while the fires of Hell are encircled by our desires.’
Valentine stares at her, perplexed.
‘Sometimes it’s the very things we like the best – the things that fuel our egos – that make us unhappy. We just don’t realize it. We think the pain inside – the fear inside – is something that threatens the happiness those things bring us – but in fact it’s those very things – which we hold on to so desperately – that are the very source of our misery! When you let go of those things you let go of fear.’
Valentine ponders this for a while. She briefly remembers the dead Valentine of that morning – the un-Valentine – peeking blankly through her grille at the fine chrome-work on Karim’s car. She shudders, involuntarily.
‘Of course I’m running ahead of myself, here.’ Aamilah picks a stray cat hair from the knee of her robe, simulating nonchalance. ‘It’s just that I’m so excited by the idea of what it would mean to you and to Allah if you gave yourself back to him again.’
Valentine nods, mutely. She doesn’t really know what else to contribute.
‘There’s this brilliant website which I found very helpful when I was first thinking of reverting back to the one true faith myself.’ Aamilah reaches into a pocket inside her robe and removes a small piece of paper with a phone number and an address neatly printed on to it. She passes it over.
‘The phone number is my mobile. I want you to ring me on it whenever you feel like you need to. The internet address is for HowToBeAGoodMoslemGirl.com. It’s very basic but really useful. Sets everything out way better than I ever could.’
‘Thanks.’
Valentine takes the slip of paper and puts it down on the arm of the sofa.
A short silenc
e follows. Outside, on the front step, Farhana is softly singing an indecipherable nursery rhyme to Badriya. Nessa listens from her spot on the floor, head cocked, intrigued.
‘So what about this little picnic of ours?’ Aamilah wonders, grinning.
‘Oh … uh …’ Valentine’s eyes turn towards Nessa.
‘We brought along a spare robe, just in case,’ she wheedles. ‘Farhana and I will walk either side of you. We’ll protect you. Nothing bad will happen. We’ll be your bodyguards. You’ll be completely safe with us, I swear.’
‘It’s not … I’m just not sure …’
Valentine slowly shakes her head. Her throat starts to contract. ‘Mum will be home in an hour or so. And I need to contact the bank …’ She starts to try and clamber to her feet. ‘In fact I should probably …’
‘We’ll be forty minutes, tops,’ Aamilah doggedly persists, grabbing the fabric of Valentine’s skirt to stop her from getting up. ‘We’ll just stroll down there in the sun, have a quick snack on the grass – feed the pigeons, maybe – then head straight back home again.’
‘It’s nothing personal, I just don’t think … I just really couldn’t …’ Valentine struggles to explain herself.
‘Don’t think. Just act!’ Aamilah exclaims. ‘Be our cousin for an hour. Be one of us. Stop being Valentine, full of doubt, always over-analysing everything. Be … be beautiful, happy, laughing Hamra, our retarded niece from Leicester.’
‘You have a retarded niece in Leicester?’ Valentine’s slightly perplexed.
‘Yes. Well, no,’ Aamilah modifies, ‘he’s retarded but he’s our nephew and he isn’t actually called Hamra. Hamra’s a girl’s name. It means “red” in Arabic. Red’ – she grins – ‘like a Valentine.’
‘Hamra,’ Valentine echoes, amused, softly touching her hair.
‘Red for love,’ Aamilah nods, encouraged. ‘Red for a rose. Red for …’
She casts around for further examples.
‘Red for blood,’ Valentine murmurs, anxiously, ‘red for danger.’
‘Red for sacrifice.’ Aamilah nods, her brown eyes igniting, enthused. ‘And for strawberries,’ she then quickly adds, with a shrug and a grin, ‘and cherries, of course, and post-boxes and … and red for a robin’s breast …’ – she jumps to her feet – ‘and fire engines’ – she heads for the door – ‘and poppies and ladybirds and …’ She pauses for a moment. ‘While I think of it,’ she muses, pulling on her niqab, ‘we made pakoras for lunch …’ She pops her head out into the hallway. ‘Hana!’ she yells. ‘Hana! Hana! Did you remember to bring the ketchup?’
The Yips Page 38